Sunday, October 25, 2009

Our attempt to kayak to the the storybook island in the sea beyond Villa Serena was thwarted almost before it began. The affable German woman who had encouraged such a journey had been replaced by a more uptight upstart, and she assured us in the high seas it was not safe.

Storybook Island from the Lobby

Unflapped, we took the kayak for a brief spin offshore and Shelly returned to the front desk explaining in Idaho we had rivers a little more intense than waves a couple of feet tall. She did not budge and we relented, instead traveling down the coast to Argyle Point and visiting with some pelicans on the docks. This too, we would learn was unacceptable. We returned to shore to find the desk clerk, pacing the veranda, her arms folded. We were lectured for our unknown trespass, for apparently kayaking further than several feet offshore was verboten. It was time to depart. We left wishing we'd made a run for the island despite her objections.

Our return gaugau to Semana was uncharacteristically calm and slow. The driver either cared for his equipment or was so drawn into the animated debate of religious beliefs he was having with his front seat passenger that he forgot that all guaguas must be driven as if both the accelerator and brake pedal operate like a light switch rather than a dimmer - lacking any setting between on and off.

Typical Stretch of Asphalt near Balandra

Small pothole and H & R Electromuebles

Puerto de Samana

As had become our custom we arrived in Semana with mere minutes to spare. We had just enough time to purchase a ticket to Santo Domingo at Caribe Tours, buy some cookies - the only snack we could find at the adjoining bar and jump onto the idling bus. It was the last bus of the day. What a bus it was. Compared to the tailbone jarring, farm animal-laden transportation we had ridden up until now this was posh. Actually compared to any bus in America this was luxury. It fell somewhere between first and coach on an airplane. Soft cloth seats that reclined, personal air conditioning settings, and the potholes that had shook the guaguas felt like pebbles in our path.

The Nice Bus

Campos de Arroz

After half an hour of rough roads retracing our journey two days previous, we turned south and our pace accelerated to highway speeds. It was the fresh asphalt of the newly completed Highway 2 connecting Sanchez to Santo Domingo. Cookies long since consumed and hunger consuming us, we turned to the only consumable we still carried... rum and coke. It didn't fill our bellies, but we forgot about our hunger and the passage of time.

Before we knew it the Carribbean Sea was beside us and the frantic pace of El Capital surrounded our bus. People were everywhere and the madness of the streets of Puerto Plata suddenly looked calm by comparison. Everything was grittier, faster and more intense, best highlighted by the guaguas - no longer clean brightly colored vans, but dent-covered doorless affairs whose conducirs no longer simply collected fairs and banged instructions on the van's side, but also leap from the vehicle into traffic to assist the driver in narrow passages and harrangue taxis and autos.

RD 3

Arriving in El Capital

Recovering our luggage we decided on a hotel, caught a taxi and settled into El Beatrio, which given its positive review in the Lonely Planet had subsequently raised their rate by $20USD/night. I was unwilling to gamble the time and effort for another taxi and another hotel however, and convinced Shelly to stay - partially due to the thought of schlepping the bags and partially due to my love of the old coral walled castle-like interior.

El Beatrio Lobby

Coral and Brick Masonry

Courtyard and Rooms from Second Floor

It was pushing dark by the time we were settled and we used the opportunity the evening presented to stroll the streets. Not in a deliberate way following a set walking tour, we had tomorrow for that, but serendipitously without stopping to consult directions or guidebooks. The city gave us its own map and identified her own highlights: the pedestrian boulevard where we browsed shop windows until a sudden rain shower forced us inside for croquettas; the city wall over looking the port which served as the focus of much of the Spanish exploration of the New World; an old cathedral which now serves as the resting place of national heroes, city squares; courtyards and a fragment of the city battlements we climbed to take in nighttime falling over the city. We ended our evening in a small corner restaurant where we dined on grouper with the affable owner before stumbling home exhausted to our hotel and marvel of cable television.

Stupid Dingo documents the adventures of Brent and his Stupid Dingo, Kootenai, currently residing in Boise, Idaho USA.

Designed primarily for friends and family, content centers on our travels and free time while clinging tenaciously to the belief that world is, and can be a better place than we're fed on the evening news.